It knows. I don't know how it knows, but it does.
Let me back up and explain myself, so that what I'm saying sounds less like some jack-off making no sense on a blog and more like a proper story, at least like a proper explanation.
Last night, me and a couple guys from The Monster's operation were hanging at my place, playing cards. It was quiet. There aren't many quiet days, or quiet nights really, not anymore. So it was nice to sit back, relax, breath in the cigarette smoke of a few buddies and enjoy a few rounds of poker. Plus a few rounds of beer, to go with it all. Nothing quite so warm and fuzzy as alcohol, not when you're scared.
And then there was a knock on the door.
I got up, I answered it, I didn't think anything of it on my way to the door.
But it was The Monster. Standing there, staring at me with those glassy grey eyes that never seem to blink.
"Card games tonight? How about I join you, hmmm, sweetie?"
The Monster talks like that, like it's your best friend and your worst enemy at the same time. It had it's coat on, the one made of human skin-leather and hair, the one that now that I think of it I don't think I've ever seen it not wearing. It didn't wait for an answer to its question; it just strolled into my apartment, the Devil itself entering my home.
I'm never going to feel safe again.
It played cards with us, that was all. Nothing happened. But I know it's onto me. The Monster doesn't make house calls, the Monster never visits unless it's seriously fucking pissed off at you, if it's planning something awful for you. And in the middle of the night, in a room full of scared shitless guys who knew how fucked I was, how fucked they might be just for being in proximity to me, The Monster went on this long rant about how anyone leaking our information is as good as dead. What was the phrase it used? Oh yeah.
"Snitches don't get stitches...they get a visit from me!"
I need to get out of town. Tonight.
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